


A Port in a Storm

by LoveChilde



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Deeks being Awesome, Episode Tag, Friendship, G Callen Needs a Hug, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Losing a Parent Sucks, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 13:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: Episode tag for 10X22. After the funeral, G is at loose ends. Deeks is surprisingly - or maybe not so surprisingly - helpful at anchoring him. What's a friend who owns a bar for, anyway?





	A Port in a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. TW parental death, grief, abandonment issues, repression issues, the complete G Callen package of issues, really. My thanks to wildforce71 for language beta and to Dafi M for a small medical consult.
> 
> In the interest of full disclosure - to my eternal gratitude, both my parents are still alive, and I hope they continue to be so for a good long while. This is an attempt to dive into G's head while he deals with the loss of a parent, and I only hope I did it justice.

On the way out of the cemetery, Nikita says "I want one just like hers. Same design."

His breath is coming in short gasps, so G doesn't try to wave the request off, or claim that it won't be needed anytime soon. They both know better. So he nods, and says by way of reply, "I'll need to know your birth date for the stone."

He is answered, and files the information away as one more thing he now knows about his father that he didn't know before. There's a limited window to get this information, he knows, and a limit to what Nikita will disclose. He’ll need to edit his list of questions in order to ensure maximum success.

The irony of treating his father as an intel collection mission does not escape him, but he is too tired to think about it too hard.

He doesn't allow himself to rest, to stop, to think, in the days after they free Nikita and come home. Alex spells him at the hospital, allows him to go home if he wants to, but he barely does. Instead, he walks, for hours.

The first night back, as soon as Nikita is safe in a hospital bed and pronounced unlikely to die within a few hours, and as soon as the doctors give up on trying to give G a checkup, he leaves the hospital, dodges the others, and finds his way to a gym. There, in the peace and quiet of a late night, he goes at the heavy bag until his arms and hands are as sore as his ribs (cracked), his throat (bruised, and also aching with things he couldn't say), and his midsection (bruised, badly). He stops only when he's too unsteady on his feet to avoid the bag swinging on the rebound, and finds himself sprawled on the floor, dazed and tasting blood. Everything hurts, and for a moment, he wonders whether he's succeeded in breaking those cracked ribs, but at least the pain is almost only physical.

Amazing how shaken he is, given that Joelle and Anna aren't _actually_ dead. But what he's seen, his mind can't un-see. Every time he closes his eyes, and at this point even when he's pretty sure they're open, he sees their bodies slammed against the wall, stained with blood. They looked like broken things. He feels like a broken thing.

He can't just sit and be broken, though. Not yet. And he knows that the sharp jagged edges of trauma are usually sanded less sharp and raw if he has something else to focus on. He drags himself home and lets exhaustion take him down to where the dreams can't follow. It almost works.

***

In the days after, he heals some, at least physically. The bruises bloom and then fade, breathing and movement come easier. In a vicious counter move by the universe, though, Nikita's health continues to deteriorate. Every day it seems to G that while he can breathe easier, Nikita struggles more. Their time is running out, and the jagged edges in him are sharpened again. He hates hospitals.

He has been fatherless for much longer than he's known he has a father. He tells himself that the loss won't be a loss, really, just a return to the status quo, of G. Callen without living family. He knows that's a lie. For years, he was G Callen, lacking even a full first name, an orphan cut off from the world. Then, briefly, so briefly, he had a father living, present. And a sister, which was still incredibly strange. When this is over, he knows, there will be no going back to the way things were. He will be Grisha Callen, with a sister, a nephew, and two graves to visit.

It's a terrifying thought. He pushes down on it and stays on his feet. Instead of thinking about the future, he asks about the past.

***

"I should write a will." Three days after the rescue, and while G still holds on to the thought that Nikita might walk out of the hospital, the man himself seems to've given up on it. "Something for you, for Alexandra, for Jake – mostly for him. He is young still, you understand, Grisha? Something for him to go to a good school, when he is older. And to buy those video games with, now."

Callen sighs, nods. "Alright. I could get a lawyer, or…?" A hand motion stops the suggestion.

"No need, Grisha. Get a pen and some paper. Not a lawyer."

G wants information about his past. How his parents met, what his mother was like, who his grandparents were. Instead, he gets bank accounts, hidden stashes of cash, details of old enemies he might want to watch for.

"Dad-"

"Grisha, why do you keep asking? What does it matter, where I grew up, or your grandmother's name?" Watery eyes caught his own, blue meeting blue, until he looked away. "They were not nice people. They were not _good_ people. The past is in the past. You do not need it. I am giving you the future, instead."

"But-"

"No, Grisha. It does not matter."

Being denied hurts, and Callen is too damn tired, his body still bruised, his emotions too raw, to hide it well. Nikita's gaze softens.

"Maybe, before I go, I will leave some information for you. But if we start talking about the past now, there will be no time left for the future. I don't have long." He coughs, a hacking, painful sound, and his breath catches. The fit continues, hectic spots of color showing on his cheeks, red on pale, and goes on long enough that Callen slams his hand down on the emergency call button and the room fills with nurses. He retreats from the bed, letting them work, trying not to feel left out. Not to feel abandoned. Not yet.

He really doesn't have long.

For the nine days between Nikita's rescue and his funeral, G barely sleeps. He pushes away pain, fatigue, shock and sorrow, and forces himself to continue. Sam makes him stop to eat every few hours, Hetty sends him home from the office when she catches him there, and he knows the whole team is watching him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's waiting for it, as well, although he sometimes feels like there was ever only one shoe, hanging in midair.

***

Apparently, when it comes to the death of a parent, one can never be really prepared for it. No matter how clearly it's coming, or how tenuous the connection with the parent, it's still…felt. Hard.

In the end, both G and Alex are there when it happens. In the space of a day and a half, the infection gets worse, the lucid periods shorter, the struggle to breathe harder, and the looming prospect of death closer. It's still a shock, all the same.

"He's crashing!"

They're shoved out of the way, reasonably gently, but nobody seems in a real hurry to help. A crash cart doesn't arrive, and while the cannula remains firmly in Nikita's nose, nobody's starting CPR.

"Somebody do something!" Alex's voice is shrill in his ear. A nurse stops, looks startled and then sympathetic.

"Oh – maybe we should discuss this outside. Let the staff work."

She chivvies them out, Alex protesting, G just numb. When the nurse kindly explains that Nikita has a signed DNR order, Alex explodes. G grabs hold of her before she gets a finger on the nurse, and by the time he's calmed down her fury, it's all over and they weren't even there to say goodbye.

But really, G tells himself, all they've said for over a week has been goodbye.

Alex is shattered, betrayed, disbelieving. It only takes her about fifteen minutes of weeping to lash out at him, at the fact that he stands there dry-eyed, that he doesn't _care_, that their father is _dead_ and he just –

He turns and leaves, to stunned silence behind him. He cannot handle this. Nope. He's out.

Hetty finds him a couple of hours later, staring out at the ocean but seeing pretty much nothing. That he managed to drive there without killing himself or anybody else is a miracle. 

"Alex called me. She was…apologetic. Mortified at herself, even. And understandably distraught."

"She wasn't wrong." He shrugs. Hetty is smart enough not to touch him. He'd hate to have to shrug her off, but he doesn't think he can stand being touched just yet. The wind on his skin feels like sandpaper. "She was caught by surprise. Somehow." It's not that he had any idea about the DNR, more that it just made too much sense to try and deny or refute. Later, maybe, a sense of betrayal would hit him, briefly.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Callen." Somehow her formality is a comfort, and she waits another beat. "Will you need a hand with the arrangements?"

"It's all arranged. Just a matter of setting a time for it." He ordered the stone a week before, and Nikita had left instructions –a private ceremony with no religious trappings. All G had to do was let the funeral home know and schedule it. "Tomorrow, probably."

"Very well." Now she puts a hand on his shoulder and he shudders, and takes a step away. He wants the touch, feels the ghost of warmth through his shirt, but not like this, not now. Not yet. They stand in silence for a few more heartbeats and then Hetty repeats, "Very well," and leaves him.

***

He asks the team not to come to the funeral. He knows it's hurtful, and if it were just him, he knows he'd welcome their presence. But Alex doesn't have anybody she wants to ask, and he feels that coming with the team would just sharpen her feelings of loneliness. Besides, she’s still reeling, he’s cold and shut down, so they’re an incautious comment away from another one sided fight, and he doesn’t want the team to witness that.

They stand by the grave, silent, and watch the cremated remains being lowered in. Alex doesn’t say anything, so G doesn’t either. He wants to say goodbye properly but doesn’t know how, and doesn’t want Alex to hear him try. In the end, the silence stretches and breaks.

“You’ll come for lunch on Saturday?"

“Sure.” He doesn’t care if she’s asking out of a sense of duty, and even less that he’s agreeing because he knows it’ll hurt, and knows they may end up exploding. Jake doesn’t need to see them fight, but the risk of that isn’t enough that he’ll deprive a child from growing up with all the family he has left. “I’ll bring dessert.”

"Okay."

It’s a stupidly normal conversation. She walks away and leaves him, and he crouches by the grave for a few minutes after, silent and thinking. He has no idea what to say. There's so much he doesn't know where to start.

His phone vibrates, giving him an excuse not to say anything yet. He checks, and finds near-simultaneous messages from Sam and Hetty, both in the same general direction of 'you shouldn't be alone, come over, also don't come to work for a few days'. He doesn't want to go back to work yet. He also doesn't want to come over.

Both Sam and Hetty should be his safe port in a storm, but…no. He's done trusting Hetty with his emotions, has been for a while. She's hidden too much from him and manipulated him enough. He's willing to follow her lead, and would still go through fire and storm for her, but he feels raw and rattled, and isn't willing to trust her with that. She'd try to rebuild him to better suit her needs, and however justified those needs, he doesn't want to be rebuilt.

Sam is not an option for different, more benign reasons: he'd be comforting, and provide booze, and he'd expect…well, that was the problem, really – that he'd expect things. He'd want G to talk, to share, to describe and explain. And G has no words with which to describe and explain, and no idea what to say. He doesn't think Sam would go for the comforting silence type of treatment and is almost certain that he can't stand anything else just yet.

Being family, he guesses he's expected to go to Alex's, and that as half siblings they should provide each other with mutual comfort. Also not an option; they aren't really close enough for G to open up, and he doesn't know how to comfort someone without erasing, suppressing and disregarding his own hurts, so the element of mutuality is lost. Absurdly, he wants to not hurt, but can't stand to feel normal. He _could_ just ignore it, but that would be a Bad Idea.

He puts a coin on his father's grave, the same one he'd carried for years, and stands, brushing dirt from his trousers. And he texts both Hetty and Sam back with a neutral refusal, and a confirmation that they shouldn't expect him the next morning.

In the car, he tosses the jacket on the back seat, tugs off the tie, and folds the sleeves up. Then, he sits, the AC going full blast, the radio off, and thinks. After another ten minutes, he drives off. He keeps driving until the dashboard lights are blinking angrily, scolding him that the car is running on fumes. He finds it ironic.

He fills up the gas tank and buys himself a chocolate bar, something uncomplicated that tastes like the better parts of childhood, before heading back to the city. Two hours later, he finds that he's parked in his usual spot next to his place – meaning right next to the bar. The bar, which appears to be closed, though a dim light shines inside. It's late enough that it should be open, so of course G is on high alert leaving the car, reaching for a gun that he isn't actually wearing. The from entrance bears a sign apologizing that the place is closed due to a family emergency, and promising an all-night happy hour the next evening to compensate. This does absolutely nothing to lower G's state of alertness. 

He takes the back entrance, senses on high, wishing he hadn't left his gun in the safe before the funeral. There is noise coming from inside – the radio on, volume down. When he risks a glance into the bar, there's only Deeks there, sitting at a table under muted light with a bottle of beer in front of him, still glistening with condensation, and another, unopened, across from him. G knocks on the wall by the entrance, quiet and careful and precise, and Deeks looks at him.

"Callen, hey." He motioned towards the chair opposite him, at the table. "Beer?"

"What's the emergency?" He doesn't move from the entrance. Deeks gives him a baffled look back. "You're closed, the sign said family emergency. Your mom okay?"

"My mom's fine. You dad, however…" Deeks shrugs one shoulder, his tone implying that the answer should've been self-evident. "I'm sorry, Callen. My condolences."

"Thanks." G's voice sounds flat in his own ears, and he feels briefly disoriented. "But-"

He has no idea how to put it into words, but luckily, Deeks seems to guess what he wants to say and spares him the awkwardness of having to say it. "You're family enough to count, man. And I figured you wouldn't want a bunch of rowdy drunks under your feet tonight. They can come in tomorrow, no harm no foul. Tonight it's just you, and me if you want the company. Siddown." He motions towards the chair again.

The thought of going upstairs and being alone is terrifying, for some reason, so G sits down without complaint. "You shouldn't have. Kensi?"

Deeks makes a dismissive sort of noise and pops the cap on G's beer. "Told me to be me here, more or less." He says it as if that's answer enough, and in a way it is. G sips the beer and wishes for something stronger. "No spooks at the funeral?"

"Not unless you count him, or me." At least, not as far as he could see, and he'd kept an eye out, thinking that maybe old colleagues or enemies might come to make sure Nikita was in fact dead this time. Or someone from the Russian embassy, come to gloat discreetly. Fortunately, there had been nobody. "No gate crashers. Guess that's a bonus." He sips again, and draws a blank on what to say next, so he stays silent.

Deeks doesn't push, and the silence rests between them, not quite tense but not relaxed, either. G notices that he's gripping the bottle too tightly, and forces his fingers to unclench. The bottle grows warm under his hand, condensation beading on his fingers.

"I wasn't at my dad's funeral, you know? Didn't find out he'd died until…well, until Hetty tried to track him down after I was shot." Deeks' voice is soft, soothing, his tone light without sounding forced. "He ditched, not long after I shot him when he hit my mom once too often. Not very accurately, but I was eleven, so I've learned to cut myself some slack." There's old pain under the light tone, and G looks up briefly (only then noticing that he's been staring sightlessly at the table), meets his eyes, and they share something that isn't even a nod, more an acknowledgement of a shared history, of having had to see, feel and do things at too young an age. "I know when and how it happened, and where he's buried, but I haven't gone to see his grave, you know? It didn't seem to matter."

There's a longish silence before G drags up an answer out of himself. "I convinced myself that he was dead, years ago. Decades. When I realized that no, he wasn't a secret agent who'd come rescue me like a movie hero. At least I got the second part of that right." The rescuing had mostly been in the opposite direction. "It was easier to assume he was dead than to think he didn't care."

"Yeah, I know that one. I mean, for a while I knew where my dad was, but after he got out of prison…" Deeks shrugs expressively, and G nods very slightly. "We were better off without him, but knowing that rationally doesn't really help, does it?"

"No, not really." G agrees. "Not at all." He has no idea if he was better off without a present father. Was growing up in the system better or worse than a Russian prison camp, being hunted by the Comescu family, or a spy for a father? He honestly doesn’t have the relevant life experiences to imagine it.

They're silent for a while longer. Finally, after going through any number of possible things to say, G simply makes a releasing motion with both hands. Letting it go, in a way. Except that he isn't.

"Alex okay?"

The change in subject helps. "As okay as can be expected? At least she hasn't cut me off again, like she did last year." It had taken three months for her to start talking to him again, mostly for Jake's sake. "She still blames me, but…we got to say goodbye." He has a feeling that his relationship with his half-sister will never be more than cordial at best. But each other and Jake are all the family they have, and G knows he'll at least try to make an effort to hold on to this. It helps him feel less adrift. "At least now we know – I mean, really know. No more question marks." That's a lie, actually; Nikita's passing has left behind many questions which will likely never be answered, but even the certainty that those blank spaces in his past will remain blank is somehow better than wondering whether and when he might find out. "It's somehow better to be sure. That he's-" He can't say it, and to his eternal embarrassment finds that he's choking on the word, and swallows hard.

They have a grave. A time of death. The certainty of _what happened_, which is better than decades of not knowing anything at all. The beginning and the ending are clear, even if the space between them remains vague. But the thought of an ending, of a still point in time with nothing beyond it, releases a flood of something G is just not ready to handle yet, and suddenly he can't breathe.

He stands too quickly, and the blood rushing to his head does nothing to improve matters. For a brief, terrifying moment he's sure he's about to throw up, but then there are two hands on his arms, just below shoulder height, and they're warm and grounding and he's trembling, but he doesn't throw up, and the room rights itself and things are just that tiny bit less overwhelming.

"Easy. Easy." Deeks doesn't release him, and G is torn between gratitude and resentment because this shouldn’t feel as good as it does, to be touched. He and Alex hadn't even hugged at the funeral. Not even a handshake, too awkward with each other still to navigate the specifics of what was permitted and what would be Too Much. "Sit back down." The hands push slightly and he goes along with it, until the seat is solid under him, his arms resting on the table, folded, and his head follows pretty much on its own to rest on them. "Okay." Deeks keeps a hand on his shoulder like an anchor, and G hates to admit how much he needs that. "Okay. Just breathe, nice and slow." He counts, four to inhale, hold four, and exhale four. On any other day, this would be insulting. Today, it's just necessary.

It takes a solid three minutes before G feels steady enough again that he can speak. A glass of water has magically appeared by his hand, and he ignores the fact that his hands are shaking and he has to grip it tight with both of them to drink. "Sorry."

His first instinct is always to apologize, when he needs help, when he disappoints, when he's an inconvenience, when he breaks his own image. Nate had talked to him about that, or tried to, but it's a deeply ingrained response, and even on good days he has a hard time shaking it. Today is not a good day. That he's sitting in a chair and not curled up somewhere under a table is an achievement already.

"We're cool, man." Deeks' voice is low and comforting, his 'talking to victims and small twitchy animals' voice, and G can't find the energy to be offended by that because it damn well works. "We're cool. Take it easy."

Nothing about this is easy. G pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slow, steady. When he's entirely sure he can sound normal, he tries again. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Deeks replies easily, in a tone that promises that he won't, either; not as a weapon, not to tease him, not in any way meant to harm or humiliate. G appreciates that. After a few more moments, Deeks asks, "So, have you, like, slept at all since we got back?"

"What are you now, Sam?" There's no irritation in G's voice, because he can't work it up, and because Sam has actually been really good about not asking all week, even when G wasn't avoiding him in order to not be asked. "I've slept. Some." In snatches of fifteen or twenty minutes here and there, anything longer being interrupted by nightmares both old and new. Joelle and Anna being shot has officially been added to his nightmare theater's regular program, which has done nothing to improve his mood. "Not much," he admits. 

Deeks nods, unsurprised. "Maybe now you'll be able to. You know you won't be woken up and rushed to the hospital, at least."

There is that, actually. He's done waiting and worrying. No more wondering how it would feel. He knows, and it feels-

It feels like a panic attack, actually. He is so not in the mood, damnit.

Still, he nods, lowers his head, and tries to get his breathing back under control. The waiting's over, now what is he supposed to do with the rest of his life?

"At least I have a clear memory of this." It's not very comforting, really, but also, it's one parental death that he thinks won't feature in his nightmares. There won't be any flashbacks from this one. "Why does something so…normal – have to be like this? The one landmark event with a parent I can fucking remember clearly, and it has to be him having signed a DNR?"

It comes as a sort of explosion. He doesn't normally swear, or shout, and there he is, doing both, and he's on his feet again somehow, every nerve on edge for…something. Fight or flight, he's not sure which, but he can't breathe again.

"He signed a DNR?" Deeks keeps a hand on G's arm, and there's no stress in his voice, he's just having a conversation. "He didn't tell you in advance, I'm guessing?"

All G can manage by way of a response is a snort, and it's closer to both laughter and tears than he'd like to be at the moment.

"Harsh, man."

"It makes sense. For him." G shrugs, attempting casualness, failing miserably. "Hit Alex hard."

"I can imagine. No offense to the dead, but that's a shitty thing to do to your kids."

"He wasn't used to having kids. To having anybody dependent on him. Not that we ever were, really." Not used to telling secrets, sharing information, even critical information. Not used to considering other people's pain. Now every brief, pleasant memory he has of Nikita, every sense of victory, will be forever shadowed by failure and ultimately by death. "When I didn't know whether he was alive or dead, it was a 'forever' sort of situation, you know? Either he never existed, has always been dead and out of reach, or he's alive, and will be forever, or I won't ever have to deal with him being-" he chokes again, "not being alive." 

"Yeah, I know that one. Welcome to the perfectly normal and entirely terrible and heartbreaking reality of losing a parent, as an adult." The sympathy in Deeks' face is more than G can handle, and he looks away. "It sucks. And I'm sorry."

"It sucks," he agrees, clearing his throat first. "It's _unfair_." Why can't he ever find them and just keep them? He'd been too late for Amy, years too late. Ultimately, he'd been too late for Nikita. He sinks back down into the chair behind him, hands trying to scrub the headache away. His face feels too hot, and his hands on it are freezing.

"It's unfair." Deeks agrees, sitting down as well. "And we rage, and shout, and sometimes cry, and nothing at all changes the situation, until we make our peace with that. And then, slowly, it does get a little better." They're quiet for a while longer, before Deeks asks, "Why don't you use your name? Your full name, I mean. I've – wondered." His tone makes the ‘I’ a ‘we’, a question nobody on the team has voiced even though G knows they all wonder. It makes his initial response more defensive than it has to be.

"It's on all my paperwork. On file with NCIS." To Deeks' silence, he continues, "It doesn't feel mine. I've only ever been G, you know? Grisha sounds foreign, and Gregory – it's not me." He'd tried Greg on for size, and found out very quickly that it chafed, so he gave up trying. Nobody used his name anyway, except Nikita. And he never would again. It feels like a heavy door closing in his heart, in his guts.

"I'd – gotten used to talking to him, sometimes. Before the Russians took him. We'd get a coffee sometime. We'd have lunch. Like normal people." There was little enough that was normal about his routine, but those meetings, the coffee, just talking, that was almost normal. Sure, he couldn't take about his work and Nikita wouldn't talk about the past, but there was always music or sports or whatever either one of them were reading. "I've gotten over missing it, I thought. Maybe." Except probably not. It wasn't like missing a friend, or being incapacitated. It wasn't harder, say, than Sam being away on a mission, or when Hetty had been missing all those months. It hurt less than being shot. But it also hurt more, and on an entirely different level. He is closer to Hetty and to Sam than he could ever be to blood family, but still…blood is blood.

Deeks says nothing, lets him continue, in fits and starts. It's easier to answer when he hasn't been asked; that way he doesn't have to fit his response to any particular thing.

"I found him twice, and lost him twice, and both times it was my own stupid fault." If only he'd been fast enough or smart enough or had enough political pull to prevent Nikita being handed over to Russia in the first place-

"No, no – Callen –" the hold on his arm returns and tightens, almost painfully, and he glances up at Deeks, a question on his face. "This – _none_ of this, okay? None of this was your fault. Hetty or Sam or someone has to've told you this before. This is not your fault."

If they have – and G is reasonably certain Sam at least might have – it's long forgotten now. Anyway, Deeks doesn't get it; of _course_ it's his fault.

"I let the Russians take him. And then I didn't rescue him," he explains, and thinks he sounds entirely reasonable except that he is breathing in sharp gasps, and everything hurts, and his voice is kinda ringing in his ears. The question of fight or flight is resolved and he stands up again and manages two steps before Deeks grabs hold of him again.

"You had no choice. Hell, he flat out _told_ you to let him go!"

"When a person – tells you – to let him die – is a good time - to be dis- to be – to not do it!" G counters, and it's getting harder to talk. "Shit."

"Yeah, c'mon. Let's get you down before you fall over." Deeks leads him, not back to the table but to the corner of the room, and eases them both to the floor. The wall is solid and supportive behind G and he wonders how Deeks knows that having something behind him and around him, keeping him safe, would be exactly right. Probably the same way G knows it. He draws his knees as close to his chest as he can, and notes in passing that it's not as close as it used to be. He's getting old. "Here, hold on."

For a moment, Deeks leaves, out of touching distance, out of sight, and the solid wall behind him is no help at all against the painful, knife-cold jolt of utter loneliness that catches G by the throat. It's a matter of seconds, but it _hurts_, and it's just long enough that the automatic defenses of 'I don't need anybody and nobody needs me and there's no help ever' kick in. By the time Deeks returns, G doesn't want to look at him anymore, and the bubble of don't-touch-me extends a good couple of feet from him. Letting someone in was a mistake and he's not going to make it twice in fifteen minutes.

"Here." Something large and soft intrudes on his personal space, and he catches by force of habit. On closer inspection, it appears to be a large cushion, probably from the bench by the wall. "You're not going to let me hug you," Deeks explains in response to his questioning noise, "so hug that. It'll make you feel better."

Oh. 

It does, in fact, make him feel better. It's a very large cushion, just the right mix of soft and sturdy, and G closes his eyes and holds it very tightly and presses his face against it, and for a fairly long time he stays there, hanging on to the remains of his dignity with everything he has left. Yes, he's hiding behind a cushion. Also, crying in front of a member of his team, which is absolutely against his personal policy, but the cushion offers a level of protection and deniability.

"You never really worked through what happened when the Russians took him, did you?" It feels like hours later, but is probably more like half an hour, when Deeks speaks again and G peeks cautiously out from behind the safety of the cushion. Deeks is sipping on his beer, and there's a glass of something deep red that smells sweet on the floor next to G. He hadn't even noticed Deeks getting up and returning. "Cranberry juice. Had to improvise."

G drains the glass, choking twice because it's too sour and sweet together and he actually hates cranberry, but needs the sugar, before he considers answering. He's already shown more than he ever wanted, might as well go the whole way. He could shut up, put the walls back up, but he's just so _tired_. And Deeks is scarily easy to talk to.

"I flew back from the Turkey with Alex. Four hours in a jeep to the airport, five hours to Frankfurt, another 13 to LA, sitting next to her and feeling her hate me and blame me, every second of those flights, even when she was asleep. She wouldn't even look at me." First there had been other agents, and then it was just him and Alex. He didn’t even dare sleep. By the time he stopped feeling numb, he couldn't afford to feel anything at all. "By the time we landed, I put it all away." Heartbroken, guilty, even devastated, if he's going to be melodramatic about it, but they were all just words to describe what a person might feel, under those circumstances. G Callen wasn't just any person. Sometimes he doubted he was a person at all. He'd shoved all the feelings in a little box and threw it in with everything else he didn't want to think about, and there it remained. Until now, of course.

"You came back to work right after, I remember that. Went right into working a cover." Deeks speaks softly, without accusation. "Easier being someone else?"

G nods, hugging the cushion again. It was like that sometimes, easier to slip into a legend and not be himself for a while. He knows it's not healthy, but it's a way to cope, and most of his coping mechanisms are slightly unhealthy. At least he's too invested in having control over himself that drugs or booze aren't an option.

"So now it's all coming crashing down on you." Deeks sums up, laconic. "Sucks."

"Yeah." They keep spiraling back to that simple fact. This entire thing sucks. "I think…it'll keep sucking for a while." He feels tired and drained; his head is pounding, but he doesn't feel as much like he's likely to fly apart at the seams. Maybe, he thinks, because he already has. "Sorry you had to – to deal with all this." G waves a hand, indicating cushion, glasses, the empty bar, and then amends, "Thanks, I mean. For being –" there. A friend. A safe port in a major storm. The right man for the job.

"Don't mention it, like I said." Deeks half smiles, looking sheepish. "I mean, I won't say this hasn't been terrifying, but going through hell with a friend is better than doing it alone. Thanks for – letting me do this. I'm glad I could."

After a long pause, G concedes, "I'm glad you could, too." He checks the time, since he’s already let go of the cushion with one hand. "Shit. Deeks, you should head home. We're working tomorrow."

"Aren't you taking a couple of days off?"

"_You're_ working tomorrow."

He's not going to take a couple of days off. He knows they won't help. What he needs is to be useful.

"Fine. If you're sure you'll be okay on your own?" Deeks heaves himself off the floor with a groan.

"I'll be fine." G promises. He's used to being alone, and he should get used to it again. Besides, he has a cushion now. He can handle anything. "I'll just…hang around here for a bit, and turn off the lights when I go up."

"Okay. Call if you need anything." Deeks' tone implies that he's fully aware that G won't call unless the place goes up in flames, but the offer is there, open for him to use.

"Thanks. Really, Deeks, thank you. For everything."

"Anytime."

Deeks doesn't actually mean that, or at least G hopes he doesn't. Taking on the hot mess that is G Callen is a full time job, and G is already a tangential part of one marriage, he doesn't want to intrude on another.

The door closes, and G sighs. His knees ache and his rear is numb, but he makes no move to get up. There's solid wall behind him, and a cushion he can hug. He doesn't expect to sleep, but surprisingly, he eventually does. 

The next morning he goes to work, days off forgotten. Everyone but Deeks is surprised to see him. Deeks, true to his word, doesn't mention it.


End file.
